I Gave You My Music
by divineria369
Summary: As the opera company tries to begin anew in the small town of Mamelonné, they realize that the Phantom cannot be escaped. ExC Rated T to be safe.
1. Prologue

Prologue

The streets of Paris, France were dark; a harsh wind blew. A lone oil lamp brought forth its last burst of heat before flickering and becoming extinguished. The only moving form for miles scurried along, keeping as low to the ground as possible. The tiny shape halted periodically to preen its whiskers in the shelter of an unmoving carriage before hurrying on in the frigid cold. The mouse scampered across Rue Bonaparte, narrowly escaping the sweeping eyes of the menacing owl that was perched upon a fearsome gargoyle overhead; its unforgiving eyes gleamed through the winds of the gale. With a nervous squeak, the tiny creature fled into the shelter of the frame of a monstrous building as its thankfully untouched doors were opened.

Two men sauntered out of the Opéra Populaire and into the vehement wind. Walking as swiftly as possible, the pair made their way towards the awaiting carriage. One of them blew into his gloves before clapping his hands together as they wordlessly boarded the coach. The driver cracked the whip, making the sound pierce the gale and reverberate across the square. Two gray horses leaped into motion, and the carriage was underway.

Smoke encircled the inside of the cabin as one of the men, Monsieur Firmin, lit a cigar methodically. His companion, Monsieur Andre, turned his face away in mild discomfort. After a few puffs, Firmin struck up a conversation, ending the silence and voicing both of their thoughts.

"André...I believe I must be forthcoming. Have you noticed an unusual discontentment in the demeanor of Miss Daaé?"

Both Firmin and André co-managed the Paris Opera House; what was left of it, anyways. Miss Daaé was their current _prima donna_. André turned his head from the window, removing his gloves as he nodded emphatically and replied.

"I have been meaning to speak with you on this matter. It seems that her arias have not been quite as ethereal as they used to be before the...incident."

Firmin reclined in his seat, thinking about what had happened just half a year ago. Miss Daaé -- Christine -- had been kidnapped by a mysterious cloaked figure. The dancers, singers, and general employees had taken to calling the man the Phantom of the Opera; Firmin hadn't personally believed until the fatal event happened.

He had slowly and secretly succumbed to belief beforehand, but his belief in the man's existence became open when, at the advice of the Viscomte de Changy, the company had performed the opera score that the Phantom had entrusted to them at an annual gala. His opera, Don Juan Triumphant, had progressed smoothly and without much incident until a certain scene towards the opera's end. At the scene's climax, Christine had removed her opposite character's mask to discover the carcass-like face of the Phantom himself. The man who was supposed to play the role, Ubaldo Piangi, had been murdered by the man. The audience had erupted into screams of terror as the Phantom sliced through the ropes that upheld the grand chandelier, grasping young Christine and disappearing into an open trapdoor.

Firmin shivered as he remembered the rest. The chandelier came hurtling down , landing in the orchestral seats and causing, as he soon learned, a few fatalities. The beautiful seats had burst into flam; the fire had spread until the entire opera house had been engulfed. All that remained of the house was its great frame, inside was an echo of nothingness. Christine had returned late into the evening, a cold, sorrowful expression etched into her features. The Viscomte, Raoul, had accompanied her. It was well known that the two were lovers; it would appear he had rescued her from the clutches of the madman.

In the present time, construction on the renewal of the Opéra Populaire was underway; the company still performed at a lesser house in the Parisian countryside. André and himself had just left the original house after negotiating with the manager of construction.

"Ehm...Firmin?"

The co-manager was harshly brought to some degree of alertness as André prodded him with his cane.

"Oh, yes, of course. Do forgive me, André. Indeed, I have noticed this development in recent months. But surely that young Raoul could cheer her somewhat?"

André inclined his head in a quizzical fashion.

"Do you not think he has tried? I have spoken with him on my own account. He seems convinced that memories of the affair of the Phantom of the Opera still haunt her thoughts."

His companion nodded slowly in solemn agreement as their conversation briskly changed subject. Neither felt too comfortable speaking of the Phantom. They felt that he was always with them; always inside their minds. Always listening; never too far away. Once this strange man found something to hunt, it was hard to escape his traps.

A lantern bobbed in the night as the winds died down. A coach quickly sped over a bridge, the light of the cabin reflecting on a sullen pond. Its driver grinned violently as a burst of wind threw back his hood. The full moon shone through from a clearing in the clouds. A white half mask on the driver's face was illuminated as the coach rambled off into the night.


	2. Chapter One

**Hey everyone! Sorry for the wait...those of you who bother to check up on my little story here! Thanks to LonesomeGurlAngelofDeath and ThisDayOnMTV for making it your favorite! -sets up cookie buffet- Enjoy!**

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Chapter One

The storm had not passed with great ease. Mild devastation was evident in the countryside; the inner cities had only a few broken windows here and there. A cold sun had risen without delay that morning, illuminating condensation as it slipped off of grass and leaves. The small figure we had learned of the night before emerged from the frames of the opera house, rolling merrily in the cold grass blades a soaked Paris began to shine under the climbing sun.

In the surrounding country of the French capital, farmers and weavers had risen punctually with the sun; they set about their daily work with the finesse and precision of a lifetime at their vocation. Warm sunlight bounced off of the dripping roof of the largest building for miles around; it was a definite landmark, and the locals of the nearby town were immensely proud. To one of the townspeople, the opera house of Mamelonné was the best thing that had ever happened to the town. After the burning of the Opéra Populaire, the entire company of the aforementioned house had decided to grace the old theater with its presence.

The arrival of the company had brought nothing but good to the town as a whole. Avid followers of the performances had traveled often to the Mamelonné, bringing good trade and high spirits to the folks who lived there. But in the shadows of the market, and behind a a shaded tree, there was often talk of the bad things that the Parisians had brought. Surprisingly, the most outspoken of this minor group of people was a young thirteen year old boy. With a diligence and pride beyond his years, he hosted the meetings of the objecting townspeople in secrecy. Being the very intelligent boy that he was, the folk listened to him as he raged over the peace that had been so mercilessly lost. He longed for the tranquility of the lake that sprawled over the outskirts of Mamelonné, and was infuriated when he learned of the tourists who had littered the shores so heavily. Gérard, as the boy was called, couldn't think of a single reason to enjoy the coming of the operatic company. Until he saw her.

It was one of those summer nights in Paris, the ones where a swarm of mosquitoes from the lake decided to pay the town a visit. Determined to prove that the opera company was a cruel, town-destroying conspiracy, Gérard resolved to spy on an occupant in a lit window whom he knew was part of the dreaded conspiracy. After sneaking quietly out of his home, the boy's eyes sparked when he found an oak tree sprawling over the expanse of the wall which contained the lit room. Gérard promptly ran over to the tree, grabbing the bottom branch and ascending with no real difficulty. Shimmying onto an outstretched branch close to the window, the boy raised his head to peer inside. A young woman, no more than 20, was contentedly brushing her hair on the foot of her bed. His eyes widened when he saw her. Was this the jewel of the opera the townspeople had often spoken of? Gérard firmly placed a hand under his chin. Now, this could be a problem. She was so beautiful...surely she couldn't be evil.

As the boy had grown up in a small town, many of the townsfolk were not well educated. Gérard's loving parents were often sick with an unknown disease, so they had little time to teach him in any sort of way. His situation being as it was, the thoughts of Gérard were often primitive and not very logical. Luckily enough, his instincts about the figure beyond the glass led him down the correct path. He continued to watch the belle furtively, becoming more and more entranced by her beauty. Suddenly, she stopped her methodical brushing and glanced towards the window where he was perched just outside. The boy's eyes widened suddenly as he scrambled to keep out of her sight. He failed to keep his balance, and fell perilously to the ground, where the world his eyes had seen moments before dissolved into abyss.

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**D: Sorry for the short crappiness...I'll do better next time, I promise. In the meantime, click the little button down there and tell me what you think!**


	3. Chapter Two

**Hey guys! Sorry for the wait...I had a service trip and I worked really hard to make it looooonger. Many thanks to those who have kept checking on my ficcy -- and thanks to Nita195 for making it a fav! Thanks for waiting, and enjoy Chapter Two!**

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Chapter Two

Small anomalies of light pulsated on the back of his eyelids as he slowly regained consciousness. He could hear the beating of his heart, and feel the pain and pressure on various points of his body. Groaning with the seemingly undiagnosed pains, Gérard blinked his eyes slowly open before hurriedly closing them again. The world was not worth seeing if all you saw was a whirlpool of colors. Feeling a strange safeness of being, the boy felt content to simply try and remember how his limbs were so brutally injured. Suddenly, Gérard heard voices from what he imagined to be a hall, and two sets of feet running along them. The voices, as he cared to identify, were that of a man and woman; older than himself, but not of the aging generations. A sort of haze fell over the conversation; even though the youth was not quite at the pinnacle of alertness, he could easily tell that the woman was distressed, and that the man meant to calm her.

As the footsteps approached the place where he was at rest, they suddenly stopped. The racing talk continued, and this time Gérard could make out a few of the words.

"Not crazy--I'm fine!"

"Boy--window--sent by--ghost!"

Feeling much better indeed at this reference to him, the boy sat up, rubbing his eyes and willing them to operate in a more useful fashion. The door unexpectedly opened with a loud creak as the two figures came into the room. To maintain a low profile, Gérard hurriedly resumed his position of respite. Silence filled the room as the boy's muscles tensed. Had they seen him? What were they going to do? Were they evil? The male voice then continued with a few steps taken across the room.

"Christine, I'm worried about you. No one in the company knows who this boy is, and he very well could have been sent by you know who to spy for his next plan. I have talked to the townsfolk; they say that his parents are recently deceased."

Grief hit him as if it were a draft horse. His parents...dead. The only family he had for miles and miles...dissolved. He felt the bed being depressed as one of the two sat on the foot of it. Gérard resolved that this must be the Christine that the male voice spoke of, for light, sweet tones then flowed about the room.

"He is only an innocent boy. You and I both know, Raoul, that some of the townsfolk have not taken kindly to the arrival of the Opéra Populaire in Mamelonné. Perhaps he just decided to find out what was going on here."

Gérard would have felt like crying out his bottomless grief to them, but restrained himself as Christine continued after the absence of an answer.

"I mean to take care of him until his wounds heal...perhaps, since he is now orphaned, we could keep him here to live in the opera house. I certainly would not mind."

Gérard felt a delicate hand on his shoulder as she murmured, "Yes, I will take you in. Maybe you know something we do not."

Her warm hand remained for a few moments before the depression on the bed lifted and both Christine and Raoul left the room. Feeling hot tears well up in his eyes in spite of himself, Gérard began to sob. His body crumpled into a fetal position as he attempted to console himself with the thoughts of Christine taking care of him. She sounded very nice from what he had heard, she couldn't be evil. Christine might even be the belle from the window.

Thinking of Christine, Gérard's sobs subsided into silent weeping, then minor sniffles. Now that his parents were...what they were, maybe the woman could teach him in the ways of academics. He wanted so much to be smart; to avoid the laughs of the scholars in the tavern as they passed through the town. A new life in the opera house, he concluded, could be the best thing for him. It sounded like an adventurous and exciting life to lead.

The youth sat up from his childish pose, scolding himself. He was thirteen, for god's sake! He should not be encased in such a position. Stretching to relieve the cramping pains that added to his other bruises, Gérard took up a new position, hugging his knees tightly and drawing trembling breaths. His parents couldn't be safer. They were with the Lord, after all. He would treat them with kindness, and they wouldn't have to suffer from their disease anymore. Thoughts of two happy, healthy parents continuously lifted his spirits as he walked to a cushioned window seat. Gazing at the soft light of the few stars that had begun to shine in the twilight, the boy stared wistfully at the rooftops of the town. Finally smiling after a half day of crying, Gérard couldn't be more hopeful for the future. Author's Take As Gérard is not very intelligent, grief comes and goes swiftly. The imaginations of non-intellectuals often help.

A charge shot through his nerves as the door quietly opened. The young woman from the "night of the tree" had appeared in the doorway, carrying a tray laden with a bowl of steaming soup. She looked surprised to find him where he was, and smiled sweetly before acknowledging him.

"Oh! You are awake! I had come to take my supper in my room, but you may have it, of course. My name is Christine."

Her name...the way it rolled off of her lips...it sounded like a thousand angels in chorus. A light color graced his cheeks as he gulped and spoke sheepishly.

"Th-thank you, Miss, Miss Christine. I'm much obliged, really I am. My name's Gérard."

Trying not to snatch the tray too fast, the youth began to eat the warm soup in a sloppy manner. He felt so very hungry; perhaps he had slept for longer than he had originally anticipated. Christine sat on the bed beside him, staring out the window with a vacant look in her eyes. The soup was gone in a matter of minutes, and Gérard, ashamed from eating so rudely in her presence, shyly looked up from his meal to find a pallid color overtaking the facade of Christine. Keeping her eyes fixated on whatever was frightening her, she slowly got up from the bed and stepped backwards, bringing a hand to her mouth. Gérard, shaking slightly at the depth of her expression, put his tray aside, wanting to look behind him but trying immensely hard not to for fear of what he may see.

After a few moments, Christine sank slowly to the floor, keeping her hand over her mouth, her eyes fiercely darting from side to side. The boy slipped off the bed and sat in front of her, twiddling his thumbs for lack of words. Her face was so...mortally terrified...he couldn't think of anything to say. He imagined that her face matched his when he first heard the talk of his parents outside of the room. Wincing in a tsunami of sudden, forgotten grief, he chose some of the words from his intermediate vocabulary.

"Christine? What...what was it that made you look so...so..."

Once again, he was lost for words as the young woman moved her head to the side, allowing some of her rigor to subside.

"It was only the beauty...the beauty of the sunset, dear Gérard. Do not be frightened."

She picked herself up from the ground, brushing off the dust that had been blown up by her sweeping petticoats. Christine offered her companion a hand; he took it and took a higher position with her.

"I must go now. Forgive me for leaving so soon...I have...friends I must speak with. I shall return...shortly."

With these rather demure words, the mistress turned about and left the room promptly, closing the door behind her without looking back at the youth. Contorting his face in an utterly disconcerted manner, Gérard sat down on the cot once more.

It must have been one hell of a sunset.

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**-lets it sink in-**

**-lets it sink in more-**

**BAHA! Don't fall off the cliff. :P -- Do click the button down there. Pwease? -gives out m00fins-**

**NOTE ONE: I did name Gérard after the actor who played the Phantom, Gérard Butler.**

**NOTE TWO: A love subplot between Christine and Gérard, if it even exists, will definitely be one-sided as this fic is ExC. Obviously, Gérry already has a crush. :P**


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